


There and Back

by mcicioni



Category: Da uomo a uomo | Death Rides a Horse (1967)
Genre: Gen, References to family violence. M/m relationship implied.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 11:39:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13569840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: Two of Ryan and Bill's stagecoach "runs", from the point of view of a female passenger.





	There and Back

**Tucumcari – Santa Fe**

It is twenty minutes to twelve when Louise arrives at the Tucumcari stagecoach office, to catch the noon stage. Weather’s cool and cloudy, not too bad for mid-February. Yesterday she bought the ticket, chose what she was going to wear and what book she was going to read, and packed her valise: three days’ travel either way, and one night in Santa Fe. _Be prepared_ , for nearly forty years she told each class of children she taught. _Preparation is half the work_.

She wonders how prepared she is for what will happen in Santa Fe. Well, as her parents used to say, only one way to find out. And if it’s bad news – she’s sixty-one, and it’s not as if her life had been wonderful for these past twenty years.

There’s no stage yet, but a young man is standing outside the office, scanning the street. Very tall, broad-shouldered, fair, some reddish-blond stubble on his cheeks. He doesn’t smile, but he’s not unfriendly: he sees that Louise is short of breath, nods at her, and stands his shotgun in a corner to help her with her bag.

“Stage and driver’ll be here in a couple minutes, ma’am.” He looks straight at her as he speaks; his eyes are very blue, intense. “I’m the shotgun guard.” 

“I’m Louise Cameron.” She hands him her ticket as the stage rolls in. It’s a coach-and-four, small but quite clean. The driver pulls the brake, winds the reins around it and jumps down. He moves quickly, competently; he’s middle-aged, tall, wiry, with a mustache and dark, searching eyes.

“There’s only yourself and another passenger, Mrs Cameron,” he says, helping her into the coach while the guard stashes her valise on the roof.

“Miss,” Louise says, matter-of-factly. The lump between her left breast and her armpit feels big and umcomfortable as she climbs in; it seems to be growing a bit more painful every day. In Santa Fe she will look the doctor in the eye, explain that she has no family, and ask for the whole truth.

The other passenger strolls in, carrying a small bag and a large notebook. He’s in his early twenties and wears a stiff, starched suit; he keeps adjusting the jacket and sliding a finger under his tight shirt collar. “Zach Pearce,” he introduces himself, in a friendly tone, then fidgets with his notebook and addresses both the driver and the shotgun guard. “You know about me, right?”

The shotgun guard opens his mouth to say something, but the driver lightly lays a splayed hand on his chest, and the guard frowns, but holds his peace. “Unfortunately, yeah,” the driver says shortly. “But the mayor said we got to look after you. Get in.”

The stage sets off, and soon the horses are straining up and down the slopes of the foothills and valleys of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. There’s some mist around the tops of the pines and cottonwoods on both sides of the road. Louise tries to look at the landscape, but feels Zach Pearce sizing her up; she’s not sure what kind of help he may need from the driver and the guard, but is too well-mannered to ask.

Mr Pearce has fewer inhibitions. “Visiting friends or family in Santa Fe, ma’am?” 

Louise considers what civil answers may discourage any further questions. She chooses the easiest, even though it’s not truthful: “I need to have four teeth pulled out.” She congratulates herself when the subject is abruptly changed.

“Sorry about that, ma’am. I’m a journalist with the _Tucumcari Chronicle_. Well, I’m going to be, I hope.” Louise nods politely. “Before moving here, I was a cadet journalist in Lyndon City. But I married a Tucumcari girl and now she’s expecting, so I applied for a job.” Louise nods again. “And the editor of the paper said he’ll consider me, if I come back in two weeks with at least three good stories.” He looks at Louise, gets no response and goes on regardless. “The mayor’s my wife’s uncle. He said he’d ask the stagecoach men to help me find interesting people.”

“Good luck,” Louise says, and leans her head back on the seat. For the past few days new, intermittent aches have been making themselves felt in her shoulders, and they are bothering her again. “But now, please forgive me, I’d like to get some sleep.” She closes her eyes. A short time later she hears paper rustling, and hopes that it’s the _Tucumcari Chronicle_ , and that Zach Pearce’s homework will keep him occupied until they get to the relay station.

 

They have all had their turn in the washroom and now they are settling in the main room of the relay station. On the communal table there’s a big platter of chicken and roast potatoes, but Louise isn’t hungry. She just sits at one end of the table, sipping coffee and trying not to move her left arm too much. The driver and the shotgun guard come in together, look at her, exchange a quick glance, and go sit at the other end, facing each other. Zach Pearce comes in and, notebook in hand, makes a beeline for them.

“You two been partners long?”

Louise tries not to overhear, but the room is not big, and Pearce speaks loudly. 

The guard just stares at Pearce, reaches for a chicken leg and takes a bite. The driver says, “Long enough.”

“Seen much action? Hold-ups and the like? I thought that maybe I could write a series of articles on stagecoaches and their passengers,” Pearce says, fast and enthusiastically. “I could call it something like _If These Wheels Could Talk_.”

The guard is about to reply, then abruptly stops and scowls, as if someone had kicked him under the table. Louise represses a chuckle.

“I’m from Lyndon City,” Pearce informs them cheerfully. Is Louise imagining it, or has the driver narrowed his eyes for a second, and has the guard’s body tensed?

Zach does not seem to have noticed anything untoward. “You know,” he continues, “the town where there was that big robbery three months ago. Bandits stole nearly a million dollars. They caught one, but he escaped, and later on some Mexicans from some village across the border brought nearly all the money back, and got a reward.”

The other two men at the table listen, without moving a muscle or looking at each other.

“I’d got married the day before the robbery, so I couldn’t follow it up. But oh, what a story it would’ve been if I could’ve found out how it all went.” He stops, takes a breath. “I’d give my eye …” he glances at Louise and bites his lower lip, “I’d give my left hand to get the facts, write the story and sell it to the _Tucumcari Chronicle_. That’d get me a job for sure.” He glances hopefully from the driver to the guard and back. “I don’t suppose either of you’d have a lead …?”

“You don’t suppose right,” the driver says drily, taking a pipe of out his pocket and filling it.

“But we want to help you, like the mayor said. So we’re warnin you,” the guard adds slowly. “That robbery’d be a dangerous trail to follow. There’s a lot of nervous characters who’d shoot you in the back first, and then introduce themselves.” 

The driver looks the guard over, with a quick snort of laughter, then takes a couple of puffs on his pipe. “There’s other stories waiting to get written. In Santa Fe, have a word with One-Eye Donovan at the livery stable. He’ll tell you about Laughing Sam Carey and Black Jack Ketchum.” He glances across at the guard’s surprised expression. “And if you play your cards right, Sweet Susie at the Palace Saloon will let you into a few secrets about Billy the Kid and the Stockton Brothers.”

“Oh,” Pearce says, quickly jotting down the names in his notebook. “That’s real helpful. Much obliged.”

“Any time,” the driver says, blowing smoke in Pearce’s direction. “Time to get rolling.”

Pearce rushes to the coach, sits down, chews on his pencil for a few moments and then starts scribbling furiously in his notebook. Louise begins to stand up, but is overpowered by a short coughing fit. She turns around and covers her mouth with her handkerchief; when she glances down, she sees a small red spot. She shudders, manages to get up, and follows the stage employees out of the door; they walk side by side, shoulders brushing.

“So, you remember some of the things I told you?” The driver’s keeping his voice down, but Louise has good ears, and can catch amusement and fondness in his tone.

“Your pearls of wisdom, yeah,” the guard replies. Then he sniggers, “One-Eye Donovan?” 

“He’s a real person,” the driver chuckles. “After ten in the morning he’s so pie-eyed that he can’t remember his mother’s name, but he’s full of stories all right.”

“And Sweet Susie …?” Louise could almost swear that the young man is sounding slightly nettled.

“She’s a pal, keep your hat on,” the driver laughs; for a moment he looks younger, less forbidding. He lightly slaps his friend’s back, and his hand lingers a moment on the other’s neck; he lets his hand drop, turns around and gives Louise a long look.

“Miss Cameron, we got a couple of cushions in the boot,” he says directly. “We’ll help you lie down and get comfortable. And we’ll tell that newsman not to open his mouth until we get to Santa Fe.” He’s observant and thoughtful; it would be interesting to know what he did before his present job, but Louise doesn’t ask.

The guard turns around as well. “Or else we’ll use him and his notebook for target practice.”

 _We_. Whoever these two men are, they make a good team. Louise and Miriam had been _we_ too, for fifteen years. Louise closes her eyes for a moment, then reopens them and gives them a small, sincere smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And by the way, he’s Bill and I’m Ryan.”

 

**Santa Fe – Tucumcari**

It’s freezing cold at five in the morning. It’s half an hour before departure, but the stage for Tucumcari is already in the Santa Fe Plaza. As she walks towards it, panting and shivering in spite of her scarf and heavy coat, Louise sees Bill and Ryan checking the horses’ harness, and feels a little warmer, a little less alone.

“Miss Cameron,” Ryan greets her. “Get into the stage, out of the cold. There’s just another lady passenger today. Newspaperman’s going to be hunting for stories around here for a few days.” He grins briefly, then adds, “I’m riding shotgun today, Bill here’s going to do the driving. He bounces you around too hard, just say the word.”

Bill glares at Ryan, helps Louise into the coach and takes her valise. “Don’t mind him, ma’am. Old men’ll fret about anythin.” 

Louise listens with only half her brain. The other half is going over and over the words she and the Santa Fe doctor exchanged yesterday afternoon. The words that whirled through her head all night long.

_“Miss Cameron, you asked for the truth. Unfortunately things are not good. You have a cancer in your breast. It’s spread to your lungs, and it’s too advanced to operate.”_

_“How much time do I have?”_

_“Two months. Maybe three. Time to get your life in order.”_

_“What can you do?”_

_“Not much. Give you something for when the pain gets bad. I’m very sorry.”_

The door of the stagecoach opens, and the other passenger gets in and sits down opposite Louise. Her movements are slow, careful, and she lets out a gasp as she lowers herself onto the seat and another as the stage starts rolling and picks up speed. She’s wearing a hat with a veil; a gust of wind blows through the window and lifts her veil, and Louise can see a dark bruise spreading from her eye to her cheekbone, an older bruise beginning to turn yellow on her jaw, and red marks around her throat.

The woman flushes, quickly pulls down her veil, and lowers her head. Louise looks away.

The stage is moving fast and smoothly, the inevitable jolts and bumps are almost bearable; Ryan’s warning must have been banter. Louise leans back, tries to ignore the pain racing from her breast to her back, and closes her eyes. And immediately a flood of memories bursts through her mind, sweeping away both discomfort and compassion.

The other passenger is fair, Miriam was dark-haired. She had taught the younger children, Louise had taught the older ones. For fifteen years the two of them had lived in the same house, two unmarried, independent women together; their discussions and jokes and shared meals and shared hopes had lit Louise up inside, had filled every moment of her life and work with joy as well as meaning.

And after fifteen years Miriam had met Lawrence, and spoken of security and children, and it had taken only a few weeks for the life that she and Louise had shared to fall apart. Louise had attended the wedding, sincerely wished them happiness, and then had gone back home and kept on teaching. One day at a time, year after year. New colleagues, new children. New duties, new chores. Hardly any joy, hardly any hope.

Miriam had kept her distance, and been stiff and formal when she and Louise occasionally met. And if Louise saw Miriam move carefully when she walked or sat, and if she saw traces of bruising on Miriam’s face or arms, and hesitantly asked if there was anything she could do, Miriam just looked at her in silence, and Louise thought about the marriage laws, and her need to keep her job, and knew that she was powerless. She just let her eyes speak for her and silently say _I’m here if you ever need me. I’m here if you ever need a refuge_.

When Miriam died, her neck broken after a bad fall down the stairs, Louise spent months thinking of ways she could kill Lawrence first and herself immediately afterwards. But the reality of what she would need to do terrified her, and the school and the children still needed her, so she just kept on teaching, day after day, year after year, until she turned sixty and retired. Memories of Miriam never left her, constant reminders of her cowardice and ineffectiveness, a persistent ache much older than her new stabbing pains.

The flow of memories subsides, and Louise looks at the other woman. “Good morning,” she says softly, and her eyes add _I’m here_. The other woman nods, keeps her head down, and does not look at Louise.

 

The four of them are alone in the warm common room of the relay station. Louise is trying to eat her eggs and biscuits; the other woman lifts her veil just enough to take small sips of coffee, and keeps moving her head to look at the door, then at Bill and Ryan, then back into the depths of her cup. Bill and Ryan are sitting at the corner of the table, exchanging a few quiet words. Louise drops her fork, bends down to retrieve it, and under the table sees that one of Bill’s hands is casually resting on Ryan’s knee, and one of Bill’s long legs is trapped between Ryan’s boots.

The door opens, and the other woman starts, sharply drawing in breath.

“Take it easy, Mrs Dawson,” Ryan says. It’s the station manager, bringing in more firewood. Mrs Dawson takes a deep breath: “I’m sorry.”

Bill stands up and grabs his hat. “Almost time to go.”

And soon they are rolling through brown, dry hills, with few trees, sparse clumps of brush among rocks and boulders. The road is relatively smooth and they’re going fast; in less than two days they’ll be back in Tucumcari. Mrs Dawson’s veil protects her from most of the dust that blows in. Louise occasionally takes a small flask of water out of her reticule, dampens the end of her scarf and blots her face and neck. Every now and then she can’t help coughing, but she’s becoming quite good at hiding what she finds on her handkerchief.

And suddenly the coach jerks abruptly, slows down and comes to a stop. Mrs Dawson stiffens and clamps a hand against her mouth, stifling a scream. Louise pushes the leather curtain aside, sticks her head out of the window, and sees that three men have ridden onto the road, blocking the stage. A robbery? All three are wearing gunbelts, but the guns are in their holsters, their hands are empty.

“What the hell …?” Ryan snaps, thumbing back both hammers on his shotgun.

The man in the middle answers, with a soft, mocking laugh. “Easy there, I got nothing against you men. I just want my wife back, is all.” Then he stops laughing and addresses the stage, with the soft voice of a man who does not need to shout in order to be obeyed. “Joanne. Step out now.”

“If you don’t want to, just stay where you are, Mrs Dawson,” Ryan says flatly, eyes narrowing as he looks at the men. 

“This ain’t none of your business.”

“You stop the stage, it’s our business. And your wife’s covered up, but it ain’t hard to see why she left you.” Ryan’s voice is still calm, but there’s steel in it. 

“My wife belongs to me, by law.”

Louise’s insides turn to ice. In the space of a heartbeat she thinks of Miriam, and remembers her own cowardice, and then she thinks _two months, maybe three_. She swallows hard, instructs Mrs Dawson to stay where she is with a sharp gesture of her hand, and steps out.

“She doesn’t want to be your wife any more, Mr Dawson.”

He looks down at her as if she was a cockroach. “Who the hell are _you_? You help her run from me? Think you can spare her what’s coming to her when we get home?”

Bill speaks for the first time, winding the reins around the brake. “All right. I’ll get your wife for you.” 

Ryan stretches out an arm to hold him back, but Bill jumps down, between Dawson and the coach door. Dawson looks pleased at having found an ally; Bill takes half a step towards the door, then suddenly pivots on his left foot, lunges at Dawson, grabs his foot, yanks it out of the stirrup and heaves, pulling Dawson off his saddle. Dawson hits the ground hard, manages to sit up and reaches for his gun; Bill kicks his hand, grabs his other wrist, pulls him up and backhands him, once, twice, three times, with cold fury. 

“How’s it feel, huh?”

Dawson mutters a curse and tries to break free, and Bill punches him in the face, all his weight behind the blow. Louise hears bones crack and sees blood flowing from Dawson’s busted nose. 

One of Dawson’s companions attempts to draw; Ryan cuts loose with one shotgun barrel, and the man’s forearm shatters into pieces, blood streaming from his arm, shoulder and side. The other man‘s hand moves towards a rifle in the saddle scabbard; Ryan trains his shotgun on his stomach and stares at him with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, and the man gives Ryan a small, humiliated nod and dismounts to tend to his howling, cursing associate.

Joanne Dawson gets out of the stage and goes to stand beside Louise, shaking from head to foot. She has pulled up her veil: she’s young, thirty at the most, and good-looking in spite of the bruises. “All they’ll ever learn is that whoever’s stronger wins,” she whispers, despair in her voice.

“Did you try to reason with your husband?” Louise asks quietly. “To make him see sense?”

“Yes. More times than I can remember.”

“And did he stop?”

The younger woman shakes her head, her eyes filling. Louise puts an arm around her shoulders, and they weep together in silence.

The uninjured man has managed to tie pieces of his shirt around his companion’s wounds and to settle him on his horse. Dawson spits out some blood, staggers towards his own horse, mounts up after a couple of attempts. “You’re finished, both of you. I’ll get Fraser to fire you, and the sheriff to charge you with assault. And _her_ with desertion.”

Bill’s right hand barely moves, and suddenly there’s a gun in it, pointing straight at Dawson’s chest. Without looking at Bill, Ryan says quietly, “Don’t.” Bill hesitates for a moment, shrugs, and re-holsters his weapon.

Without removing her arm from Joanne’s shoulders, Louise looks up at Dawson. “You go right ahead, Mr Dawson. And I’ll sponsor young Mr Pearce to write a story for the _Tucumcari Chronicle_. How you and your friends held up a stage and threatened its employees with firearms, and how the two of them bested the three of you.” She stops for a moment, until the pain in her breast passes. “And if you’re still out of jail when the story comes out, I’ll personally take a copy of the paper to Senator Williams.” She stops again, coughs, breathes in and out. “I’ve heard that he’s in favour of women getting the vote and that he has no time for violent husbands.” 

 

Joanne is no longer trembling as she and Louise watch the three horses getting smaller and smaller in the distance. Ryan and Bill are standing in front of them, shoulder to shoulder, and Louise shouldn’t listen to what they are saying to each other, but she does.

Bill half-turns towards Ryan. “Hey. When I jumped down, ‘d you really think I would’ve let him …?”

“For a moment, yeah, I did. My mistake.” Ryan takes his pipe out, fills it and lights it. “It ain’t just young people who got things to learn.” 

“That so?” Bill looks at Ryan, and there is open warmth in his eyes. Ryan just nods, takes a long puff of smoke and runs his hand lightly down Bill’s shoulder and arm. Louise gazes at the two of them; they are _we_ in a way that she and Miriam never were, in a way that they might have been if they had had more courage, or better luck. She lets out a breath: remembering Miriam now seems to be a little easier, a little less hopeless.

Joanne adjusts her hat; her veil stays up, her eyes are dry. “I have cousins in Tucumcari,” she says, with determination. “They’re good people, they’ll help me. I worked in a library before I got married; I guess I’ll move to a big city and start working again.”

Louise smiles at her: “You’ve got a friend in Tucumcari as well.” As soon as she gets home, she’ll go to a lawyer and write her will: in a couple of months Joanne will have enough to make a fresh start. And, before things get really bad for her, she’ll take Joanne along when she goes to put flowers on Miriam’s grave.

“Ready for Tucumcari, ladies?” They both nod. Ryan opens the door and helps them in, then climbs up on to the box seat beside Bill. Bill takes the reins in both hands and looks at the road ahead. 

“Homeward bound. Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Bridget, Elfbert and The Friend With No Name (but she knows who she is) for extremely generous help with language and content. Thanks to Linda and Kees for Americanisms and Roxana for more wonderful photos.


End file.
